


Ignis Scientia's Six-Step Plan for Adding a Commoner to Your Royal Retinue

by everylemon



Series: Gap Years [1]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Angst and Humor, But Mostly Humor, Friendship, Friendship is Magic, Gen, Noctis Lucis Caelum is Bad at Feelings, Pre-Canon, Prompto Argentum is a Good Friend
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-12
Updated: 2021-03-16
Packaged: 2021-03-20 14:28:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30006300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/everylemon/pseuds/everylemon
Summary: Noct would like to not instantly lose Prompto after graduation, which is what will happen if he goes with his signature strategy of Doing Nothing Until It’s Too Late.So he talks to Ignis.And Ignis, predictably — which is both the best thing and the worst thing about Ignis, really, his total consistency — makes a list.It’s six items long (he’s sure Ignis has gone to great lengths to condense it) and he hates every single word on it. But if it’s the only way to keep Prompto in his life — if Prompto evenwantsto be there after he realizes the bullshit hoops he’s gonna have to jump through — he’ll bite the bullet.
Relationships: Prompto Argentum & Noctis Lucis Caelum
Series: Gap Years [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2207319
Comments: 44
Kudos: 74





	1. Upgraded Security Clearance

When the quiet kid with the camera ran straight up to him, clapped him on the shoulder, and instantly became his best friend, Noct had a hard time connecting those two versions of Prompto.

‘Cause the Prompto he knows is sheer bravado. He’ll jump into any crazy situation in a heartbeat. He’s just down for whatever, always. He’s fun, and funny, and talkative, and outgoing, and the life of the party.

Except: there is no party.

There’s not really anyone.

It took Noct way too long to notice that Prompto’s parents are more than just _busy at work._ They’re straight-up barely ever home.

There was a time where he actually thought they might not exist — that they were basically imaginary friends Prompto sprinkled into conversations to prevent child services from intervening — but then Prompto’s mom dropped him off at school one day on her way back out of town. She waved goodbye out the window, and Prompto seemed happy in a way Noct had never seen before.

But in any case, they’re not around, which means Prompto generally lives in an empty house.

Which, okay, so does Noct. But Prompto doesn’t have a second house (palace) full of people _way too invested_ in his wellbeing.

It turns out that what Prompto’s got is: Noct.

And when Noct puts this together (which takes him far too long because, despite the scatterbrain persona, Prompto knows how to fix a leaky faucet and schedule dentist appointments and replace a blown fuse and hop on a bus to anywhere in Insomnia and a million other things that are maybe kinda magic) . . . that’s when he realizes he’s got to bridge the gap. Especially because graduation is coming up fast.

To this point, he’s kept Prompto as his school friend. Sometimes that spills into the arcade, or a diner, or his apartment. But he’s never brought Prompto into the Prince Noctis life as far as he could help it.

Part of that’s because he can feel the anxiety radiating off Prompto whenever Ignis shows up unexpectedly during a study or gaming session at Noct’s place. Or that one time Gladio decided to be a dick at the arcade. Or when Noct had tepidly floated the idea of Prompto meeting his dad.

Mostly, though, it’s because he’s selfish.

He likes having Prompto solidly in this part of his life. He likes having a friend who’s not also on the royal payroll. Most of all, he likes that Prompto can’t see how thoroughly and completely he fails to meet any of the expectations set out for him in that other life.

Prompto just sees Noct: straight-A student, above-average gamer, below-average ping-pong player, and (apparently) adequate friend.

But it’s also clear that Prompto needs people, and Noct . . . he’s got some good people.

(But only one _friend_ , just friend, and again — there’s that selfishness, because he’d like to not instantly lose Prompto after graduation, which is what will happen if he goes with his signature strategy of Doing Nothing Until It’s Too Late.)

So he talks to Ignis.

And Ignis, predictably — which is both the best thing and the worst thing about Ignis, really, his total consistency — makes a list.

It’s six items long (he’s sure Ignis has gone to great lengths to condense it) and he hates every single word on it. But if it’s the only way to keep Prompto in his life — if Prompto even _wants_ to be there after he realizes the bullshit hoops he’s gonna have to jump through — he’ll bite the bullet.

* * *

Noct first brings it up talking about university.

At a school like theirs, it’s all anyone can talk about — except neither Prompto nor Noct have brought it up. Not through the second-year slog of applications, even as everyone around them dedicates a large chunk of time to whining. Not through the wave of acceptances and rejections coming through as their final year hurtles them all towards _The Future_ , which Prompto pictures as a sort of faceless Grim Reaper type waiting at the bottom of a steep cliff.

In the end, it’s Noct who asks him first, apropos of nothing while they’re walking to Prompto’s bus stop from the arcade: “You got plans for uni?”

“Nah,” Prompto says.

Noct doesn’t say anything, just waits.

He forces himself to smile. “You can go to school for photography, but it’s not like you need a degree. Figure I’ll take on more hours at the job, save up, freelance a bit. Build up a sweet portfolio, y’know?”

Noct’s looking straight ahead as he nods, makes a little noise that might be a “yeah.” He doesn’t say anything else. It’s the first time they’ve talked about _The Future_ , and dread is wrapping cold, clammy fingers around Prompto’s stomach, telling him the jig is up. Time to face the facts. It’s been fun, keep in touch, see ya on TV sometime.

But for now, he’s here. They’re here. So he elbows Noct. “Sooo, where do princes go for higher education?”

Noct startles, like that wasn’t the inevitable question he’d ask right back, and looks at Prompto like it’s the first time he’s seen him that day. “They don’t.”

“What, really?”

“Well, you know, the lifespan of kings these days doesn’t leave a lot of extra time for training your replacement.” He’s not trying to hide cloud of depression hovering over those words, for once.

So, for once, Prompto opts out of making light. He instead bumps Noct with a shoulder. “Sucks.”

“Yeah,” Noct breathes out. “I mean . . . Dad was 23.”

King at 23.

Prompto first feels keenly terrible for Noct, and then a little bit bad for himself.

But it’s not really relevant to _him_ , is it? Because by that age — or a little later, he hopes for Noct’s sake, because didn’t King Mors have a bigger Wall sucking away his life force? — it will have been years since Prompto and Noct were friends. You know, _back in high school_. So he can just feel bad for Noct, there.

Noct, who swings his briefcase down in front of him and fiddles with the handle. “I. Uh.”  
  
Prompto swallows, but it’s dry and kind of hurts. Here it comes: the easy let-down. Better to beat Noct to the punch, especially since it looks like he’s gonna give himself an ulcer. “It’s cool, dude, I’m sure you’ll be busy.”

Noct stares at him again, with that unexpected focus, and something in his demeanor shifts, as if he’s smoothly sliding into a different personality. His face is entirely blank, which is probably how he manages to make eye contact _and_ say something direct at the same time. “I was going to ask if you could come by the Citadel on Sunday so you can get upgraded security clearance.”

This is surprising, and because Prompto doesn’t have a complete second persona built by years of diplomatic training and royal etiquette tutors, he says: “Wuh?”

“I mean,” Noct says, eyes sliding away and shoulders hunching back over. “It’ll be easier to see you after school ends, if you can come by the Citadel sometimes.”

The bus chooses that moment to roll up, so Prompto stammers out a “Yeah, ‘course, text me when and where,” with a hand thrown up in a wave as he steps up to get on.

He swipes his transit card, grabs a dangling gray hand-hold the moment before the bus lurches into movement, and allows his face to crack into a grin.

* * *

The _when_ and _where_ of getting his very own shiny new security keycard turn out to to be a Sunday morning, much earlier than he would have thought it possible for Noct to be up and walking, and the Citadel lobby — the public one, which is actually at the back of the building.

He’s waited here for Noct just once before. It was kind of a hassle, because Noct isn’t allowed to be down in the lobby. Never mind that it’s the ground floor of his dad’s house; it’s open to visitors, it’s hard to protect, and it’s somewhere the shadowy threat of Bad Guys could appear, so Noct can’t just come by without an armed guard. (At least, that’s what Prompto has gathered from Noct’s mumbled explanations.)

When one of the elevators chimes to reveal a freshly ironed Ignis in slacks and a dress shirt and bleary-eyed Noct in a black sweatshirt and jeans, Ignis beckons him into the elevator, then immediately scans his card and presses a button.

As the elevator goes up, Ignis explains more than Noct had bothered to. With the new clearance, he’ll be able to do more than awkwardly hang out in the lobby. If he had a car, he could even theoretically park in the parking garage; he’ll get a sticker for his non-existent vehicle.

But the important part is that he’ll be able to take the elevator up to the 12th floor reception.

The 12th floor is important because Noct (or Ignis) can come down to get him and bring him up to the residential levels or down to the training hall. He won’t have to fill out the official visitor form or wait for a temporary badge to be printed, like he did this morning.

Their destination is an unassuming office with nondescript gray carpeting and a relative lack of fancy oil paintings compared to the rest of the Citadel. There’s a short line, and Prompto has to fill out a form (to go along with the mountain of paperwork Ignis has already filled out and brought along, which probably contains every detail of his life except, he hopes, _that one_ — but he’s here, so it must not) and get his photo taken.

The good people of the Citadel Clerk’s office are clearly not accustomed to having royalty waiting in line.

The woman at the counter glances up, clearly already bored despite the fact that this office opened a scant five minutes ago. Then she does a double-take and shoots to her feet to bow so quickly that she knocks her rolling office chair to the ground behind her.

Noct sighs.

“Your Highness! What can I do for you today?” she asks, despite the fact that Noct is hanging back several feet with his hands in his pockets and it’s Prompto and Ignis at the counter.

“Hi,” Noct says, gesturing to Ignis with a vague motion.

Ignis slides the completed forms across the counter. “We’re here for a security keycard.”

“Sure thing, Mr. Scientia,” the clerk says, relaxing slightly. “I’ll get these entered and then Mr.” — she checks the form — “Argentum can have his photo taken.”

When she heads to the back, Noct sighs again, like this is the biggest chore of his life.

Prompto rolls his eyes. “Would it kill you to smile, buddy?”

“Yes,” Noct says, very seriously, and you know what? Prompto thinks he might be right, because that really is how miserable he looks.

But once they’re out of the office, and Prompto’s got his freshly printed card in hand and raises it aloft in victory, Noct loosens up a bit.

“Careful with that,” Ignis says, swatting at the hand waving the card in the air. “If you lose it, it needs to be reported immediately — even if you’re not sure it’s truly lost, it is better safe than sorry. Though I would keep it on your person at all times in a secure spot.”

“Chill out, Specs,” Noct mutters.

“I’ll keep it safe and sound,” Prompto promises, tucking it straight into his wallet to prove the point. “So, now that I’m here, you gonna give me the grand tour?”

“It’s a big building,” Noct points out, the corner of his mouth twitching up. “Whaddaya wanna see?”

“The top, _obviously_.” He thinks for a moment. “Followed by embarrassing photos of you as a child.”

Noct rolls his eyes. “Okay, let’s go to the top.”

“And theeeeen?”

“And then I’m kicking you to the curb.”


	2. Non-Disclosure Agreement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In theory, Prompto’s ready for this.
> 
> In practice, he makes a despairing noise in the back of his throat and stops breathing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ohhh hey wow! I was so happy to see so many friendly faces in the comments, THANK YOU for coming along for the ride on this unspecified vehicle. I hope it’s a boat ❤
> 
> Annnd welcome to our regularly scheduled Tuesday time slot!

Now that exams are ending and a different classmate breaks down in nostalgic tears during class every day, it’s starting to hit Prompto that high school is almost over.

As in, next week.

He can’t say he’s overly sad about school itself ending (although he will, of course, tear up when they sing auld lang syne at graduation because he does have a _heart_ ). He’ll manage a-OK without homework, exams, and gym class.

He just wishes what was next felt more concrete.

But his parents are in no rush for him to move out; after all, someone’s gotta hold down the home front. His boss was overjoyed when he asked for more hours at work. Plus, Noct’s been folding Prompto into some of the royalty stuff, and he doesn’t wanna read too much into things, but it . . . feels kind of intentional, actually.

It’s gotta be intentional, right?

It’s sure not an accident, because he can tell Noct doesn’t really want to bring him into the World of Lucian Royalty. He’s clearly _embarrassed_ about the whole thing, like being heir to the throne of a nation is a weird hobby he indulges on weekends. But apparently — if he’s really not reading too much into this, which he might be, he’s been known to — he’d rather bring Prompto in than leave him behind.

Anyway, the next thing that comes up is a _non-disclosure agreement._

Noct once more brings it up after being weirdly quiet and extra awkward for a few days. But this time, Prompto’s a little more ready for it; that keycard like a touchstone in his wallet, with his photo on it and an expiration date two years in the future, doesn’t hurt. He only feels a moderate and totally normally level of fear that Noct’s gearing up to tell him _bye forever, loser._

Noct waits until they’re teaming up on a zombie rail shooter at the arcade to mumble not-quite-over the sounds of undead screaming: “Gladio wants to talk to you about some security stuff. It’s stupid. Can you come over Tuesday night?”

“Sure,” Prompto says, swinging his gun to Noct’s half of the screen to take out the enemies Noct’s not hitting in time, which is their deal on shooters.

And that’s that.

When he shows up at Noct’s swanky apartment building that Tuesday, the lobby’s signature aroma of citrus and white tea hits him as a balm against the dank musk of city streets as soon as the automatic doors open to let him in. He goes straight to sign in at the front desk as usual, wallet already flipped open to his student ID. But the regular evening guard, whose shiny silver name tag says DAVID (he always kinda yells that in his head) smiles and waves him forward towards the elevator.

This is a drastic departure from their at-least-once-a-week pretense that Prompto’s a stranger off the street. To this point, his ID has always been duly checked, including a once-over to be sure his face matches the photo, without any trace of irony. Caught between the desk and the elevator, Prompto’s feet just stop in the middle of the lobby. 

“You’re on the list, Mr. Argentum,” David ( _DAVID!_ ) clarifies. “Go ahead.”

_You’re on the list._

“Ah, I’ve made it to the big-time now, huh?” Prompto jokes. Apparently his new status doesn’t quite extend to chummy jokes, because the man’s polite smile does not change. “I mean, good evening,” he finishes weakly, fleeing to the elevator.

When he gets up to Noct’s, it’s Gladio who opens the door. Prompto has to put his neck on a swivel to make eye contact.

“Hey, c’mon in,” Gladio says, gruff but warm, and Prompto follows him in to grab a seat at the kitchen table.

Noct’s sprawled on the couch, face sullen as he reads sheet from a thick stack of papers on the cushion beside him; it’s nice, thick paper, with an official-looking seal that catches the light. He lifts a hand to Prompto without looking up.

“Not joining us, Princess?” Gladio asks, and Noct, who’s still got his hand lifted in greeting, smoothly turns it into a middle finger towards Gladio, who rolls his eyes. “So cute.”

“Uh, so Noct said something about . . . security stuff?” Prompto asks.

“Sounds like Noct. Real descriptive,” Gladio snarks.

Prompto has to choke back a laugh because — yep. He sneaks another glance at Noct, who looks like the stack of paperwork is consuming him alive; he finishes a sheet and lets it drift onto a heap of similarly discarded papers on the floor.

“Yep, and some paperwork. Here.” Gladio holds his hand to the side and an amber bottle materializes in a shimmer of icy blue; he passes it to Prompto, then grabs another for himself. There’s a bottle opener on his keychain, which he retrieves via non-magical means and passes to Prompto. “Might as well get comfortable.”

And then Gladio launches into what is clearly a well practiced lecture, all summarized in a packet of documents honest-to-gods stamped with CLASSIFIED in red letters on every page.

The gist is:

Don’t talk to anybody you don’t know about Noct, don’t share anything online about Noct, turn off geo-tagging on your photos, don’t upload photos of Noct anywhere, don’t upload any photos of anything anywhere when you’re with Noct, if people show up and start taking photos look polite while you walk away but don’t engage, if you’re getting mobbed by paparazzi text the Crownsguard — oh, you don’t have the Crownsguard on speed-dial? here’s the emergency number for the Crownsguard — yeah you have a codename by the way, but no, you’re not allowed to know it, and here’s my number, text me if you need anything, Blondie. Oh. Shit. Gotta change that codename.

 _Damn_ but Gladio is _cool_.

By the time they’re done and Prompto has signed his name twenty times to various documents threatening him with legal action should he sell state secrets for fun or profit, the pile of discarded papers at Noct’s feet has grown appreciably.

It’s also late enough that Prompto takes Gladio up on the offer of a ride home. What can he say, he’s feeling bold. Gladio’s also weirdly easy to talk to for all he looks like a jock from Prompto’s third-worst nightmares.

“Hey, Noct, you should probably thank your friend,” Gladio says when they’re halfway out the door.

“Thanks, friend,” Noct says, still not looking up from the papers.

“You’re welcome, friend,” Prompto parrots.

Once Gladio punches the button for the elevator lobby, he turns to Prompto. “Sorry Noct’s being a brat.”

“Ahaha,” Prompto says, caught in a three-way tie between loyalty to Noct, wanting to befriend Gladio, and the obvious truth of the statement.

Thankfully, Gladio doesn’t seem to care about his answer. Un-thankfully, he fixes Prompto with an appraising stare that sends terror down to the tips of his sneakers. “You’re really sticking around, huh?”

“Uh, yeah?” What’s the right answer to that? He suddenly feels like Gladio’s gone from the big brother he never had to that nightmare jock. “If Noct wants me around.”

Gladio snorts derisively. They walk out of the elevator (Prompto waves to DAVID, who nods back, which bolsters his confidence) and out through the automatic doors to the waiting car. And this, Prompto realizes, is the “ride” — a sleek black livery car with a driver, not Gladio’s own car. 

For some reason _(class differences)_ this makes it worse.

When they’ve both climbed into the back seat and Prompto’s given his address to the driver, Gladio’s absorbed in his phone for a few minutes, and Prompto thinks maybe the interrogation ended as suddenly as it had begun.

But then, Gladio puts his phone away, cracks his knuckles and says: “Noct can be a whiny little bitch, but if he’s jumping through these hoops for you, I wouldn’t worry he doesn’t want you around. He’s way too lazy for that.”

“Ah yeah, well,” Prompto says, voice weirdly high-pitched in his own ears. “It’s really no big.”

“That’s what I’m saying,” Gladio says. “It is a big deal to His Moodiness. He hates all this stuff and he wouldn’t do it if he didn’t think you were gonna stick around. So I hope he’s not wrong.”

“He’s not wrong,” Prompto says, face suddenly hot. He feels weirdly defensive. “He’s my best friend.”

“That’s what I like to hear.” They pull up in front of Prompto’s house just as Gladio breaks into a toothy grin. “See ya ‘round, Blondie.”

Prompto hops out, closes the door behind him, and feels like maybe he just passed a test he didn’t know he was taking. He’s also kind of . . . touched? . . . by Gladio’s obvious loyalty to Noct, and also staggered by the number of insults per minute he uses when referring to the Prince.

He resolves to never take a ride home with Gladio ever again.

* * *

Then there’s graduation.

Graduation, at which Prompto and Noctis are once the only ones without parents present; Prompto because his are — _say it with me, everyone!_ — out of town; Noct because apparently having the King in attendance would have been “a whole thing.” He’s pretty sure that means Noct shut it down before anyone could half-heartedly float the idea of spending a billion yen on security.

This ends up being fine, because Ignis and Gladio take them out for milkshakes afterward, and it just feels . . . kinda cozy, all crammed into the corner booth and making a night of it, together.

* * *

Prompto gives himself a few days after graduation to just hang out, play video games, and wander around the city taking photos. By the time he’s due to show up to work, he’s bored out of his mind and just grateful to see human beings.

There’s already a line down the block outside the downtown Banora White Tech Store when he shows up for his shift.

There’s nothing new out today; if there had been, the line might have stretched all the way back to his bus stop four blocks away. No, people just know to show up early, which is why he’s got his white hoodie zipped up to hide the tell-tale purple company T-shirt beneath it. (He only had to learn that lesson once. Three people had grabbed him with “just a quick question” and then talked him through all of their phone troubles before he finally made a break for it, shouting apologies behind him.)

The next eight hours pass in a blur that does not, at any point, let up. It’s the best and the worst thing about this job: It just. Never. Stops.

For a lonely kid who likes to talk to people, it’s far from a bad gig (plus: he gets to use all the fancy gadgets, even if half the time he’s just rebooting them while he asks tourists where else they’re headed that day). He’s not great at the sales bit, admittedly, but he’s fast enough at the tech support part that his manager lets his poor record of “upselling little old ladies on software they’ll never use” slide.

When he finally clocks out, zips his jacket back up, and ducks out the back way, he checks his phone and sees precisely one unread message. It was sent by Noct two minutes ago: **Burgers? Teddy’s?**

He grins and swipes back: **gimme 10**

It’s a 10-minute walk towards the diner, which is apparently also how long it takes Noct to leave the Citadel and head to the diner a couple of blocks away, because he’s walking in right before Prompto turns the corner.

“Can you still just walk over here like this, all by your l’il ol lonesome?” Prompto teases when they claim a booth. He’d kind of thought those days were over from the talk Gladio had given him.

Noct groans and slouches down into the booth’s cracked red plastic seat. “No, apparently? Gladio’s on a park bench down the street. I made him go somewhere he couldn’t glower at us through the window.”

“We should bring him a burger.”

“Can’t while he’s on duty,” Noct says. “How was work?”

“Oh, ya know, nonstop for eight hours, the usual,” he says.

“You know you’re owed a 30-minute lunch break for any shift over seven hours,” Noct comments idly, scanning the menu despite the fact that he gets the same exact plain cheeseburger every single time.

“Okay, sorry Mr. Employment Law, I meant it was nonstop for eight hours minus my legally mandated 30-minute lunch break, which I took out back with Harry who has some truly horrific stories from the war, as well as a 5-minute bathroom break, if you’re really curious about —”

“Nope. I’ll have the usual,” he says, slides the menu across the checkered table to Prompto as if he’s the waiter, because it’s Prompto’s turn to buy.

Prompto rolls his eyes and goes to order at the counter.

“How’s the full-time Crown Prince deal going?” Prompto asks when he returns with their food, immediately snagging a fry from Noct’s basket.

“I think,” Noct says thoughtfully, pausing to chew and swallow as he gazes off into the distance, “that Ignis and I might actually murder each other. No two humans were meant to spend this much time together.”

“I’ll say a few words at your funeral.”

“‘Preciate the confidence,” Noct rolls his eyes. “It’s not even like he _has_ to be there all the time, he just doesn’t trust me not to mess anything up yet.”

“Should he?” Prompto jokes.

“No! He definitely shouldn’t,” Noct bursts, waving a fry in the air to punctuate his point. “That’s the thing with Iggy. You can be mad, but he’s right. He’s _always_ right.”

After maybe half an hour more, Noct has to go; his day job’s over, but now it’s time for some kind of event over at the Caelum Via, ostensibly something social, although Noct is clearly filled with dread.

Prompto, though? Prompto feels . . . hopeful. They can meet up like this, make it work. Maybe not every good thing has to come to an end. Not so soon, anyway.

Then, Noct opens the door to go and something bright flashes in Prompto’s face. He flinches back like something’s exploding — but no, he knows the sound of shutters snapping better than most.

And here’s the thing.

They _talked_ about this. Gladio explained, in no uncertain terms, that now that Noct is out of high school, all the rules are different. He’s not a minor and he’s not in public school. People are gonna take invasive pictures and write dumb stuff. If Prompto doesn’t wanna get caught up in that, he should speak now or forever hold his peace. He affirmed that it’s cool. He can deal with it. He _can_.

But opening the door and stumbling into a real gaggle of paparazzi, maybe three or four _lying in wait_ — that’s when Prompto discovers that there’s theory, and then there’s practice.

In theory, Prompto’s ready for this.

In practice, he makes a despairing noise in the back of his throat and stops breathing.

In one smooth motion, Noct tosses a coin and warps out past the crowd onto the sidewalk; they all instantly turn their backs on Prompto to face him.

Noct _smiles_.

He whips off his terrible L’il Malbuddy incognito baseball hat, runs a hand through his hair, and smirks with an Ifrit-may-care attitude. He’s answering a question, one hand jauntily in his jacket pocket — and Prompto’s just watching from the door, completely dumb-struck.

This is not normal behavior from a guy who once admitted he’d rather be an obituary than a headline.

Then, Prompto’s phone vibrates in his pocket, and it’s Noct: **what help you eating for run away.** He stares at it until his brain decodes the message from pocket-texting into: _what the hell are you waiting for, run away._

And then, partially because it’s clearly too late to save Noct anyway but mostly because he is a coward, he does.

He texts Gladio as soon as he's safe around the corner **: Noct got ambushed by photogs**

Gladio pings back a minute later: **got him thx 👍**

He's already to the subway entrance when his buzzes again, this time from Noct: **sorry about that. it’s been bad this week.**

And then: **u have ketchup on your jacket btw**

_“Sonofa—”_

The guy pushing a stroller past him on the sidewalk glances up sharply; Prompto abandons the phrase.

Instead, he swears (internally) to never wear white again, to go shopping somewhere without a children’s department, and to get a godsdamn haircut.

Because he’s _not_ gonna get caught off guard like that again. Crippling self-doubt and anxiety can suck it. He’ll show up on page 3 of the _Insomnia Inquirer_ if that’s what Noct needs from him.

As he slumps against the window of the train, he hopes it’ll at least be without ketchup stains.

* * *

By the time Gladio extricates Noct from the flashing lights and invasive questions — because once he’s actually started talking to them he has to play nice instead of walking off without a word — he’s used up all the energy he has for giving bullshit answers and smiling when he doesn’t feel like it.

So of course the next thing on his calendar is some party involving politics masquerading as charity at the Caelum Via hotel. Ignis has blocked it out for five hours. By this point, he knows that Ignis knows he wants to leave as soon as humanly possible. If it says five hours, that’s pretty much the earliest Ignis thinks he’ll be able to bow out.

“Gladio,” he says, as they half-jog down the street to make it back to the Citadel somewhat in time, “have you ever considered an exciting new career as the Crown Prince of Lucis?”

“Sorry, Noct,” Gladio says, sounding not at all sorry. “Why’d you stop to chat, anyway?”

Noct makes a face. “I wanted to let Prompto get away.” Prompto, who is undoubtedly having the epiphany that hanging out with Noct in public ever again is not worth getting harassed like that. His stomach twists; if the tabloid press was being this aggressive with _him_ , what’s to stop them from dropping by Prompto’s house, or his work, just to check out the Prince’s friend?

“You’re gonna have to trust the kid to sink or swim eventually.”

“Is that what everyone’s doing with me? ‘Cause I think I’m probably sinking.”

“It’s been less than a week. You’re doing fine.”

“Just gonna die a little more every moment I have to make small talk over fu-cking _canapes_.”

“You’ll live,” Gladio says, thwacking him upside the head, and Noct throws an elbow his way. Then Gladio’s phone buzzes and he checks it while dodging Noct. “Oh damn, never mind, Iggy’s gonna murder you for being late.”

Ignis does not, in fact, murder him.

But he _does_ shoot a withering stare and remind him that _this is important_ as he helps throw together Noct’s evening attire back in his old suite at the Citadel, and would Noct go so far as to say his adviser pulls the tie a little tighter than he really needs to?

Sure. He’d go that far.

“Ignis, I’m sorry, there were photographers waiting outside the diner and —”

Ignis stops short and pulls back to stare at Noct. “Again?”

Noct rubs his face in his palms, and Ignis makes an annoyed _tch_ and bats his hands away to fix his _eyebrows_ because this is his life now. “Yeah, four of ‘em.”

Ignis frowns, annoyance evaporating and replaced with concern. “They’ve been unexpectedly relentless.”

“You’re telling me,” Noct says. “But that’s the new normal, now, right?”

Ignis reaches a finger up and loosens Noct's tie an infinitesimal amount, then goes over his shoulders with the lint brush a final time. “To an extent, but it’s too bold for my comfort. You said they were waiting outside? I don’t suppose Prompto —”

“Hell no. Besides, Prompto wasn’t there yesterday, or either of the times on Saturday.”

“No,” Ignis agrees, and they head out of Noct’s old suite together. “I’ll email Cynthia on the way and see if she can scrounge up some better context for me to review in the morning. In the meantime, it might be prudent to avoid going out on your own.”

“I don’t go out on my own,” Noct scowls. “I’m not allowed, remember?”

“Yes, I recall, so let me be glaringly specific: I am asking you to not go out in public, even with a Crownsguard, if you do not have to, until we can figure out how to make this level of press attention stop or create a more robust strategy for coping with it.”

Noct’s scowl deepens. “Not like I have anywhere to go, anyway.”

“That’s the spirit.”

In the car on the way over to the Caelum Via, while Ignis writes up that email, Noct stares at his own phone.

He feels like he should apologize to Prompto again. But he already kinda did? And Prompto hasn’t replied yet. So maybe he just needs some space. Who knows how long it’s gonna be until he can sneak away to the restroom and check his phone without getting chewed out, though.

In the end, he takes a deep breath, types out **video games at my place Saturday night? Can’t get ambushed there :/** (which he thinks covers the bases) and hits send before he can second-guess himself.

Prompto texts back a minute later, just as the car pulls up to the circle drive of the hotel, where there's a line of sleek cars and the press are already getting their fill of Insomnia’s elite dressed to the nines. ("For charity.”)

He’s got one second to read the text before Ignis is opening the door for him: **dude NO if we back down THEY WIN and I’m not giving up on Teddy’s fries that easy**

Noct stashes the phone in his pocket, steps out, and smiles for the cameras.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few housekeeping items:  
> \- You can’t tell me Gladio doesn’t keep cold beverages in the armiger.  
> \- I am really sorry for the unnecessary and elaborate dumbapple store joke, and even more sorry, for myself, that I find it very deeply amusing even after sleeping on it for several nights.  
> \- You may find me on [tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/every-lemon), where I occasionally post writing that doesn't make it here, and [twitter](https://twitter.com/everylemon1), where I don't  
> \- You're cool, say hi!


End file.
